


To Make Flowers Grow (In This Barren Heart)

by KakushiMiko, SoldiersShield (ForetellerBryn)



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: 2012 Avengers fandom was a simpler time and I tried to recreate that, Angst with a Happy Ending, Avengers Family, Domestic Avengers, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Minor Pepper Potts/James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Minor Thor/Bruce Banner, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Witch Curses, everyone lives in the Avengers tower and everything is fine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 16:24:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14877260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KakushiMiko/pseuds/KakushiMiko, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForetellerBryn/pseuds/SoldiersShield
Summary: I hope he is worth dying for.(Tony Stark falls in love with Steve Rogers. A rogue enchantress ensures he pays for it.)





	To Make Flowers Grow (In This Barren Heart)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic definitely wasn't supposed to be as long as it ended up being. But alas, here we are. This is quite literally the longest thing I've ever written, and even though I'm very proud of it I'm also so glad that it's done. augh. Huge, huge shout out to the beautiful Jaylestial, who endured many late nights of me yelling about this ridiculous fic. She's at least 85% of the reason this story was even finished, so I am indebted to her for the rest of eternity.
> 
> This is of course apart of the cap-ironman RBB 2018, and my lovely artist KakushiMiko drew me in immediately with just the rough draft of this piece. I had been recently thinking that there wasn't much for the hanahaki trope in the stony fandom, so I set my sights on her art immediately. Lo and behold, we were assigned to each other! She was ever so gracious and patient with me during the process of bringing this fic to life, and I can't begin to thank her enough.
> 
> I did a lot of backstory to craft the disease, because I didn't want to do the usual... natural part of the 'verse? I kind of went the long way around. But! I think it turned out okay, all things considered. This was only partially beta'd because I'm the actual worst, but if you see any glaring issues, please let me know.

 

It is, for all intents and purposes, meant to be a normal mission.

They’ve handled plenty of magical beings in the past, even if Tony hates to admit it. They have _no_ consideration for the proper order of the universe, and he definitely doesn’t have the time to put up with whatever nonsense they will into existence.

Flowers, for instance. Very large, very hungry, man-eating flowers. Must be a Tuesday, then.

“Man, it’s like she _knew_ orchids were my favorite,” Clint comments over the comm line. He sounds like a petulant child, rather than a grown man shooting explosive arrows into the face of crazed, mutated flowers.

Whatever spell they’re under has turned the plants into enlarged, gnarled creatures. The teeth that have grown out of their flower petal mouths are more than a little unsettling, especially with the chittering, clicking screeches they keep making. Clint seems rather unphased by it, at the very least. Tony, on the other hand, has no intention of getting anywhere _near_ their twisted root bodies. He’ll stay in the air where he belongs, thank you very much.

“Really, Barton? You have a favorite _flower?”_ Tony questions as he flies past the archer’s perch. Large vines have begun scaling the nearby high-rise buildings, the concrete structures groaning and cracking under the weight. The repulsor blasts rip through them well enough, but they’re growing at a faster rate than Tony can contain them.

 _“Hulk like flowers!”_ The Hulk bellows from somewhere down the street, accompanied by the sound of his particular brand of smashing, _“Hulk not like_ these _flowers!”_

“Couldn’t agree more, buddy,” Tony replies as he flies overhead. Hulk seems to be doing well enough on his own, acting as a blockade to keep the vined creatures from spreading even further into the city. Regardless, he still drops down to obliterate a few that have skittered too far away with well aimed repulsor blasts. With a quick salute to Hulk, he takes off into the air again.

“I’m a cultured individual with great taste, you _dick.”_ Clint’s statement is punctuated with the crack of exploding arrowtips, followed by a very strained, “ _Oh,_ I don’t think they liked that.”

“I can’t imagine what would give you _that_ idea.”

“Enough with the chatter,” Steve interrupts, stern as he always is in the field. Though Tony could _swear_ he can hear just a hint of amusement in his voice. “Hawkeye, what’s your status?”

“They’re popping out of the woodwork like _daisies,_ Cap,” Clint’s joke is met with a resounding chorus of distaste from the others, but it doesn’t seem to deter him in the slightest.

“He’s getting backed into a corner,” Tony answers instead, already resetting his course and flying full speed for the sniper’s perch, “I take it you’re gonna need a pick up, Legolas?”

“You always know how to sweep a guy off his feet, Stark,” he replies, humor still coloring his voice as he steps back to the ledge. “Jumping in three, two-- _now.”_ Tony’s HUD lights up as soon as Clint’s in a freefall, trajectories and warnings flashing across his vision. Considering how many hours they’ve spent training for this-- and how often Tony’s teammates enjoy jumping off buildings-- catching Clint is probably the easiest thing he’ll do today. It’s a harder catch than he’s sure the archer would prefer, but he doesn’t really have room to bitch about it.

“ _Ow--_ Jesus, Tony, you could be a little bit more gentle on the grab, there,” Clint complains, though he doesn’t seem to mind the bridal style hold Tony has him in. He loops an arm around the shoulder of the suit, just to be safe.

“I don’t think you get to be picky when you’re flinging yourself off buildings,” Tony retorts, eyes flitting across the skyline to find Clint another perch.

“Don’t you know I’m a _delicate flower,_ Stark?”

“I will drop your ass, Barton.”

“I need Hawkeye positioned close by,” Steve speaks over them, “Iron Man, we’re going to need air support.”

“We found our source, if you gentlemen would like to contribute,” Natasha speaks up alongside him, sarcasm lacing her voice. Tony’s really starting to wonder when she started taking pages out of Steve’s books, if she’s being this serious.

“Please, _please_ tell me it’s just a mad scientist,” Tony says as he delivers Clint onto the nearby rooftop, “I love mad scientists, can’t get enough of ‘em. I keep one at home, actually.” Hulk roars his approval in the distance.

“Banner would find that insulting and you know it,” Clint replies. “I’m in position, Captain. Stark’s all yours.”

“Aren’t I always?” Tony flirts easily, laughing at the half-choked noise of surprise Steve makes over the line. Tony shouldn’t be distracting him during battle, but-- he’s a gifted multitasker. He’ll be fine.

Steve doesn’t have a chance to properly reply before a new voice is echoing harshly over the comms, a cacophony of screeches from the flower beasts rising up to greet it.

 _“Avengers!”_ the woman’s voice pierces their ears, _“I am Arna, of the Earth. My children and I have come to claim what rightfully belongs to our Mother!”_ She stands at the heart of the tree trunk sized vines, the bottom half of her body contorted to grow into the very plants that spread across the streets. Her skin is a sickly shade of greens and browns, cracked like the bark of a tree. If she were human before, she’s certainly not now.

“Oh great, an environmentalist,” Tony mutters as Jarvis locks onto her, already trying to pinpoint a weak spot. He’s also got eyes on Steve and Natasha on the street below, the flower creatures falling to shield and electroshock batons in kind. But for every creature they take down, another crawls out from between the roots. They’ll be overwhelmed soon enough.

“We should have called in Strange,” Steve grunts as he catches the shield, slamming it into a nearby creature in the same breath. “Iron Man, Hawkeye, report.”

“We’re not doing enough to hurt her,” Clint is the first to reply, notching his arrows and letting them fly, “Everything we take out, she replaces twice as fast. But she’s all plant, right? I’ve got incendiary arrows-- a couple of explosives, if we want to make the most of it. we’d have to keep the fire contained, unless we wanna do as much damage to everything _else_ too.”

“What’s the call, Cap?” Tony asks.

“Keep first responders on standby, we’re going to need the fire department to step in if we can’t keep it contained,” he answers immediately, “We need to keep her focus _here,_ at the center _._ Hulk, start pushing towards us, if you can. Hawkeye, keep your eyes on him, and start burning on my signal. Iron Man, you’re with Widow and I. You’re the only one who can get close enough to her at the moment.” They all voice their understanding as he exhales sharply. “God, we could really use Thor right about now.”

“We’ve done just fine without him before,” Natasha huffs out, narrowly avoiding getting slammed by a haphazard vine. “But I won't lie, the lightning would really help.”

“We’ll make due,” Tony replies, “Jarvis, keep the first responders updated-- if we need them, we’re gonna need ‘em fast. In the meantime, let’s keep her busy.” He flies lower, letting loose a short burst of missiles across the closest vines to grab her attention. Sure enough, she snarls in response, twisting on him in an instant.

“Excuse me!” he yells out over the suit’s intercoms, “I understand that you’re upset about uh-- global warming, or something, but I really don’t think you’re going about protesting this the right way.”

 _“Stark,”_ Arna hisses out, “I know you. You sit in your gilded tower, thinking yourself a _god._ Your metals are mined from the earth, and you leave nothing but devastation and decay in your wake!”

“Right, businessman against a hippie. This probably won’t work out too well,” he muses to himself. Then, to the others, “Hey, do you think she knows about the green energy efforts we’re making with the arc reactor technology?”

“If you hand her a pamphlet, maybe she’ll change her mind, Stark,” Steve responds sarcastically.  “Widow, watch your six--!” It’s the only warning they get before the largest vines are creaking and shaking against the concrete, moving to ensnarl the two on the ground. They move faster than expected for their size, Steve and Natasha narrowly manage to push themselves out of the way.

“Hawkeye, light them up!” Steve bites out, hissing in pain as he takes a hit. The creatures are closing in on him, surrounding on all sides to pin them between the trunks. Natasha’s getting cornered alongside him, and it’s only her agility that’s keeping her from being taken down, moving entirely on the defensive. Tony can’t fire on the creatures with Steve and Nat so close, but he can at least draw the attention of the vines-- and Arna, in turn-- while Clint gets the fires started.  

“You’re doing a hell of a lot of damage yourself, you know!” he calls out to her, flying closer to draw in the vines. He can hear Clint’s explosives sound off behind him, the answering screams of the flowers lit aflame grating at his ears. Arna’s attention is drawn back to them for only a second before Tony is firing on her, deploying and aiming the laser handgauntlets directly at the center of the roots. She practically _howls_ at him, raising her arms to conduct the nearby vines, sending them shooting after him. He spins out of the way, speeding off into the sky and staying just barely out of their reach.

“Your _greed_ is what inspires this destruction, Stark! We will take what we are owed!”

The roar of the Hulk is almost enough to shake the very earth, shattering through the comm lines. Clint’s voice follows it mere seconds after, sounding just an inch closer to panicked.

“She’s got him tangled, Cap. He can’t keep the perimeter!” He fires off more incendiary arrows, but it’s not enough-- the fires are spreading, but not fast enough to keep up with how quickly her vines are growing to replace the burnt foliage.

“Iron Man, you’ve got to back him up!” Steve says, breathing raggedly. “Widow and I can defend ourselves, but we’re not going to last long. Our first priority _has_ to be keeping them contained.”

“If I ever have to see another flower in my life,” Natasha complains through gritted teeth, “it will _definitely_ be too soon. Get _out_ of here, Stark!”

There’s a moment of hesitation where he simply hangs in the air, considering his options at lightspeed. If he leaves Steve and Natasha behind, they have no other defenses; if one of them goes down, the other will be overwhelmed. But Clint isn’t enough to help keep the perimeter if she’s focusing her attacks on him and the Hulk. He has to make his decision, _now._

A loud crack of thunder booms overhead, and Tony’s relief hits him so hard he could _cry._

“My apologies for my late arrival!” Thor’s voice comes to life over the comms, the most beautiful sound Tony’s ever heard in his life. He appears over the skyline, wasting no time before dropping to Hulk’s side, slamming mjolnir to the earth and incinerating the vines and creatures that lay before them. Arna’s answering screams are enough to know he’s done an incredible amount of damage. The fire has burnt through the perimeter at this point, and the lightning only serves to ignite it further. The tide of the battle has shifted in their favor.

“Thor, you beautiful bastard!” Clint whoops, “Took your ass long enough to get down here!”

“I assure you I came as soon as I could!” he laughs. He calls down a lightning strike that wipes out another wave of flowers as though they’re not even a threat. Tony feels absolute regret at ever doubting Thor’s status as a god.

“Keep your boyfriend company, I've got a few beautiful individuals that need my help!” Tony yells back, taking off once more to the heart of the battle. “Jarvis, on my mark, full power to chest repulsor. In the meantime, let’s get the grand finale started.” The remaining missiles in the suit deploy, clearing large swathes of the beasts with deafening explosions. 

“Always just on time, aren’t you, Stark?” Natasha gives a weak laugh, clearly already taken a few hits herself. There’s blood dripping from a gash on her cheek, her uniform ripped in some places and a baton missing. Steve seems to be in the same condition-- he’s got blood matted in his hair, fighting with only his fists; the shield lies yards away, with plenty of chittering creatures in between.

Something violent curls up in his stomach at seeing either of them hurt, but Tony knows, without a doubt, that he can get both of them out of here. He drops down to rip through the creatures, snatching up the shield and flinging it back to Steve. It may not be as elegant as the Captain’s tosses are, but-- Steve still catches it, and that has to count for something.

 _“Sir,”_ Jarvis alerts him, _“first responders are currently ready and waiting on the scene. I believe it would be best to evacuate Captain Rogers and Agent Romanoff.”_

Shit. He hadn’t realized how close the fires had gotten. The air filters in the suit had kept him from smelling the burning wood and weeds, from tasting the ash in the air-- but Jarvis is right. Even with Steve’s enhanced abilities, Tony doesn’t intend to let either of them stick around long enough to test the limits of that.

“Alright kids, I think we’ve had enough fun gardening today,” he says, backing up beside them as he fires off the repulsors once more, “you’re both a bit more flammable than I am. I’ll finish clearing you a path, and then I’ll deal with the Wicked Witch myself.”

Steve is ready to argue in an instant, but Natasha’s already voicing her agreement. “He’s right, Cap. Stark and Thor can finish her off-- there’s not much more we can do from here without getting burnt to hell.”

“I’ll cover you,” Tony says, “I’ve still got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

“If any of those tricks get you _hurt,_ Tony,” Steve replies addamently, “you and I are going to have a _very_ long conversation about reckless self-endangerment.”

Tony shouldn’t feel so happy to hear his own name in the field, especially when Steve is technically _scolding_ him. But he’s the only one that Steve breaks his own rules for, and god if it doesn’t leave him positively _giddy._ He’s glad they can’t see his grin under the faceplate.

“Pot calling kettle,” Tony muses, “Jarvis, what’s the fastest way I can get these two out of here?” The HUD lights up in answer, the necessary weaponry enabled just as quickly. If he can keep their focus on him, and cause enough chaos to keep them scattered-- Steve and Nat can make it out safe. The two break for their escape, and Tony rockets up to draw Arna’s attention once more.

“This is your chance to turn yourself in!” he yells, “Go quietly, and we douse the fires. This is your last shot, Arna. Make it count!”

She’s practically curled in on herself, shuddering as the flames burn through her elongated limbs. Arna looks to Tony with nothing but a biting fury in her black eyes, baring her teeth.

“I will let the fire claim me before I surrender to your kind, Stark! I will burn you _with me!”_  The roots converge on him once more, but he doesn’t have the time to consider dodging.

 _“Jarvis, full power to center thruster!”_ The surge is enough to nearly drop him from the sky entirely, but it hits its mark-- the beam cuts clean through the roots, sparking flames in its wake as it carves a fissure into the vines closest to Arna. Her screams pierce the air, joined in a chorus by the beasts that burn and crumble to ash. Tony can hear the others drawing closer, the familiar buzz of electricity under his skin, the roar of the Hulk louder and louder still.

 _“Sir, you have incoming--”_ Jarvis attempts to warn him, but it’s already too late. The rogue vines snake around his waist, his legs, and _pull._ He can hear the yells of the others distantly in his ear piece, but the blaring of the warnings on the HUD drowns them out entirely. She’s crushing him with far more force than the suit can sustain, and soon it will be enough to crush _him_ too.

“I _told_ you,” Arna snarls, “I _told_ you I would burn you _with me.”_ She drags him forward until he’s face to face with her, before digging her near talon-like fingers under the edge of the faceplate. She rips it from the suit like it’s _nothing,_ and Tony coughs and shudders as the sudden smoke filled air fills his lungs.

He can hear Steve’s voice above everything else, crackling through the comm line and _screaming_ for him. He wants to reassure him, wants to tell him he’ll make it out of this one alive, just like always-- but Arna’s hand is suddenly around his neck, and speaking is no longer an option.

Her anger shifts as she considers him, watching him with calculating eyes. “You hide yourself away in your technology, but you are just as human as the rest of them. Your heart betrays your desire to _possess.”_ Her gaze falls to the arc reactor, and his blood runs cold in his veins.

“The Earth will reclaim what we have lost,” she says, dragging a hand over the chestplate of the armor. “It is you, and your kind-- your greed that pulls life from the soil as if it were nothing. You will reap what you have sown, Stark. The avarice in your heart will strangle the very life out of you.”

The hand against his chestplate glows and _burns,_ the heat bleeding through the armor. He cries out, trying to shrink back-- but the vines simply squeeze tighter around him. Arna meets his eyes once more, a serene smile on her face as she leans forward.

“I hope he is worth dying for,” she murmurs, before the heat seems to pierce directly through his chest, into his heart. The pain sparks against every nerve, grating against his ribcage; as though there are _hands_ digging in against his sternum, as though the arc reactor itself is lit aflame--

She drops him. His vision goes black as he falls, the screams of his teammates nothing but whispers in his ears.     

 

* * *

 

Consciousness comes back to him in steady increments.

The first thing he hears is the quiet beep of a heart monitor, keeping in time with his pulse. It’s offset by the steady drip of the IV in his arm. He’s been in the medbay enough times to know the feeling of the slightly scratchy blanket resting over him.

 _“It could be twelve hundred count Egyptian cotton,”_ he’d said to Steve once, “ _it’s the medbay, it’s still uncomfortable.”_ The look of fond amusement he’d given Tony was more than worth the pointless rant.

_“Maybe if you didn’t spend so much time there, it wouldn’t be so bad.”_

Tony’s starting to think he had a point, if the _annoyance_ of being bedridden is worse than the pain itself. Speaking of which-- there doesn’t seem to be too many points of pain, other than the expected scrapes and bruises. The weight of the arc reactor is familiar against his chest, and he’s _alive,_ so that’s probably in working order too. He also can’t feel the numb effect of heavy pain killers, so it must not be _too_ bad, then. He slowly cracks open his eyes, blinking away the grit and too bright lighting.

He glances around the room, taking in the familiar sight of the medbay. Everything is bathed in the afternoon light that streams through the windows, casting everything in a warm glow. It’s a nice comfort, considering how much he _hates_ it in here.

“Tony?” a familiar voice asks from nearby, though it takes his brain a moment to catch up and register that it’s _Steve._ He’s sitting in one of the nearby loungers, his sketchbook in his lap. He’s cleaned up from the battle, freshly showered and dressed in his civvies once more. He wonders how long he’s been out, if they managed to _actually_ convince Steve to leave his bedside for two seconds. He was always such a worrywart when one of them was hurt. There’s a soft, concerned frown on his face, something that makes him unfairly attractive and endearing all at once.

“You know,” Tony mumbles, “we’ve really gotta stop meeting like this, Cap.” Steve’s frown transforms into a weary smile in an instant, a look of fond exasperation in his eyes. Tony’s rather used to it at this point, but it still manages to draw a tired grin out of him.

“You’re right. Maybe you should keep that in mind the next time you think about jumping directly into the line of fire,” Steve replies dryly. He glances Tony over, clearly taking stock of his injuries. “How’re you feeling?”

“Fantastic,” he says easily, “how long have I been out?”

“Only about five hours,” Bruce pipes in, drawing Tony’s attention away from Steve to realize that-- oh, right, Bruce is here too. Oh god, how long has he been standing there? Tony’s look of guilt must translate pretty easily to Bruce, considering the wry smile he gives him before he taps away at the nearby holoscreen, checking his vitals.

“I know I’m not as pretty as your bedside nurse, Tony, but I’m trying to take care of you too, here,” he says innocently, ignoring Steve’s indignant sputtering from off to the side. Tony snorts out a laugh, though it feels… strangely _heavy_ in his chest. Huh. He wonders if they’ve had a chance to properly check the reactor yet.

“Aw, Brucie bear, don’t be like that,” he grins, “besides-- you’ve already got your own beefy blonde to hit on. You don’t have to pull poor Steve into this.”

“I am still _right here,”_ Steve interjects haughtily, though it seems to go unnoticed by the other two. Well-- at least by _Bruce._ Tony’s rather enjoying the way his cheekbones have turned a very appealing shade of pink.

“One of the on-call doctors has already been in to check on you,” Bruce carries on smoothly, though Tony can easily pinpoint the softer lines of his amused smile. There’s always _something_ whenever someone mentions Thor around Bruce-- a warmth that shows so easily on his face. Tony can’t help but feel happy for him; he deserves something kinder, after everything he’s been through.   

“Oh, which doctor was it this time? Please tell me it was--”

“--Dr. Catalina is still here, if you wanted to talk to him that badly,” Bruce raises an eyebrow at him.

“Marcus is a man after my own heart, really,” Tony says. “What’s the report from the good doctor?”

“You have a hell of a number of contusions, dislocated shoulder that’s already been reset, no broken or fractured bones, thankfully,” Steve speaks before Bruce can, absentmindedly erasing something on his sketchpad. “He needs to check you for a concussion, now that you’re awake. He said that your heart rate is good, but he wants to check your lungs and the arc reactor. Your respiratory rate is higher than it usually is, but we’ve seen that before after you’ve taken hits like this.”

Tony and Bruce have both gone silent, and Steve looks up with a puzzled frown when they don’t respond. “What? I was listening. It was important information.”   

“Right. Pretty much all of that.” Bruce nods in agreement. “Like Steve said, he’s going to want to check you over again, probably take some x-rays of your chest. I’ll…” he glances quickly between Steve and Tony, considering his options. “...I’ll go grab him. Keep an eye on him for me, Steve?”

“If I don’t, he’ll be halfway down to the workshop before we can blink,” Steve replies, giving Tony a very pointed side eye.

“I resent that,” he responds, but doesn’t deny it either. “Thanks, Bruce. Cap’ll stay on sentry duty.”

Bruce waves off the thanks as he heads for the door, “You can thank me by staying in bed, Tony.”

“Why do none of you believe I’m capable of staying in one place?” Tony huffs as soon as Bruce is out of the room and, thus, out of earshot.

“If you’re there for your own safety, you’re not,” Steve says, sitting his sketchbook on the side table before looking to Tony again. There’s a fond warmth in his tilted smile, and it makes something stir in his chest. ...Not metaphorically, either-- the weight against his chest only seems to get _heavier,_ pulling in on itself. He inhales deeply, and waits a few moments. The pain dissipates, as though it wasn’t even there to begin with. _Now_ he’s starting to get worried.

What had Arna done to him, in those last few moments? The memories seem so muddled, for some reason. She’d grabbed him, wrapped her vines tight around the armor, crushing down on him-- _god,_ it had hurt. But she’d _said_ something to him, whispered something cruel as she pressed her hand against his chest, searing pain at the heart of the arc reactor. What on earth could she have done to him?

_I hope he is worth dying for._

“What happened, after I blacked out?” he finds himself asking, his voice distant. He can’t start panicking yet. If she’d done something to _truly_ damage him, it would have affected him by now, right? The arc reactor was clearly still functioning, if his heart rate was normal. Or at least, it _was,_ until he started thinking about this extensively. He can hear the steady beeps of the monitor begin to pick up in speed.

“She dropped you,” Steve answers, a coldness to his voice that Tony’s only heard very, very rarely. “Thor managed to catch you before you could hit the ground. We planned to take her into custody, but the fire… it had spread pretty far already. She wouldn’t let us anywhere near her, so she, ah… she burnt up, with everything else.” He does manage to look regretful at that, regardless of how angry he’d been. Steve was never fond of unnecessarily taking lives.

If the witch is gone, then Tony stands no chance of knowing what it was exactly that she did to him. _Don’t panic. Don’t panic._

“Tony?” Steve’s standing and stepping to his bedside, clearly worried. He sits beside him on the edge of the bed. “Your pulse is really starting to kick up. Are you okay?”

“Fine, I’m fine. It’s just.” he pinches at the bridge of his nose, as though to alleviate the sudden headache that’s come over him.

_I hope he is worth dying for._

Steve _knows_ about the panic attacks-- most of them do, at this point. It’s safe to say it out loud, with him. He doesn’t have to hide it. “Feels like-- anxiety. You know? I just want to be sure she didn’t _do_ anything to me. The sooner we get this over with, the better.”

“Hey. you’re going to be okay, Tony,” there’s an all too familiar stubbornness to his voice, comforting and grounding all at once. “We’re gonna make sure of it. Every time you get hurt, you say always you’ve gotten through worse, right?” Tony chokes out a quiet laugh at that. “See? You know I’m right.”

“I believe you, Cap,” he sighs, the harsh beating in his chest subsiding slowly but surely as the panic attack recedes. “Maybe you’re right. I’m sure it’s nothing, I just-- I hate magic, you know?”

“I _do_ know,” Steve says in bemusement, “you’ve made that very clear over the past few years. But if she did anything, then you know we can call in Strange to help.”

“Oh _god,_ that sounds so much worse. Let’s not do that, at all, ever.” Tony grimaces at the suggestion. “...Right, okay-- I’ll save the panicking for later, I guess. Staying positive, and all that. I’ll be fine.”

“You will be,” Steve nods. Tony tries his hardest to believe him, and ignore the heaviness that presses against his lungs once more.

_I hope he is worth dying for._

 

* * *

 

There’s something in his chest.

They can’t figure out what the hell it is, but it’s _there._ It’s in every x-ray, every ultrasound, but it’s given no indication as to what it actually _is._ It sits dead center in his heart, spreading thin, curving limbs along his chest, nestling against the arc reactor. He doesn’t think he can feel them, not really-- but if he inhales wrong, turns at just the right angle-- he _knows_ that something is there.

Tony stares numbly at the wall as Dr. Catalina speaks, nothing more than a quiet buzz in his ears. He should start to panic, probably. There’s something they can’t identify taking up refuge in his chest, and from what words he’s managed to _actually_ pick up-- none of them can figure it out. That probably warrants a panic attack, doesn’t it? His weakest point is the arc reactor, and he’s got a magical parasite trying to dig its way around it. Realistically, he should be full tilt panicking right now.

Instead, he finds himself sitting in one of the armchairs of Strange’s Sanctum, his arm in a sling and a cup of tea untouched on the table before him. Stephen came as soon as they’d called, whisking Tony away with promises to return him in one piece. He doesn’t think it did much to reassure Steve _or_ Bruce, but they didn’t have much of a chance to object before he and Strange were gone. Thus, armchair. Tea. A growing sense of dread in the pit of his stomach. _God,_ he hates magic.

“I’m not trying to poison you, you know,” Stephen comments as he pulls floating books from the shelves with a simple wave of his hand. “You could at least _try_ the tea.”

“I’m more of a coffee guy,” he quips, though the usual fire behind it is missing. In the blink of an eye, the teacup morphs into a cup of black coffee. The aroma is more than tempting, but he still doesn’t drink from it.

“You know I hate magic, Strange,” Tony says, rubbing at his forehead in annoyance. “More so than usual, right now. I’m not gonna drink your voodoo coffee.”

“Voodoo and magic are two different classifications,” he replies breezily. He steps out of the rows of bookshelves, flipping through the pages of the book in his hands. “Ah, I think I may have found something.”

“Great. So let’s reverse the spell and turn me back into a real boy, Doc. I’ve got important things to get back to.”

Strange shakes his head, leaning against the table, “I don’t think it’s going to be that easy, Stark. Magic like this has stipulations, and it’s not always easy to overcome them.”

“Of course not. So what’s the trick to this one, oh wise Fairy Godmother?” he leans back in his chair, raising an eyebrow at him.

“If you don’t stop with the god awful magic jokes, I’ll drop you right back on your doorstep and you can figure this one out _yourself,_ genius.” Strange fires back, not bothering to look up as he flips to the next page. “She used plant-based magic, correct? What were the _exact_ words that she spoke to you?”

“Shit, I don’t know. I was a bit busy getting _crushed to death_ by sentient vines, Strange. I don’t exactly remember her villain monologue word for word.”

“I don’t _need_ word for word, I just need a basic outline. What was she doing to you, exactly? What was the _point?”_

Tony pushes aside his annoyance with Strange to rack his brain, trying to piece together what it was _exactly_ that she’d told him, before pressing a glowing hand to his chest and sparking pain along every nerve in his body.

_The earth will reclaim what we have lost. It is you, and your kind-- your greed that pulls life from the soil as if it were nothing. You will reap what you have sown, Stark. The avarice in your heart will strangle the very life out of you._

“She said something about-- about greed, about killing the earth,” he frowns, rubbing a hand at his chest where it twinges in pain, “But something about me, specifically. _The greed in your heart will strangle you_ or some bullshit. I don’t know. I just thought she liked the sound of her own voice, up until she shoved her hand in my chest like it was _nothing.”_

“Well, that sounds about right.” Strange doesn’t seem pleased by this revelation, which certainly doesn’t sit well with Tony.

“What does _that_ mean?”

“It means I think I may know what she did to you, but I need to be sure for myself.” He steps forward, palm outstretched above Tony’s heart. “I’m going to need to touch you. Is that alright?”

“My safeword is _ferrum,”_ Tony replies. Stephen stops moving and looks at him in absolute disbelief.

“You _seriously_ made “iron” your safeword?”

“I mean _technically_ I didn’t. it’s Latin, there’s a difference.”

“And you call _me_ a self-centered prick.” Stephen rolls his eyes so hard Tony’s fairly sure they nearly roll right out of his head.

“Hey, takes one to know one, I guess--” Strange presses a hand to his chest, the circular Tao Mandala sparking to life against his skin. Tony cuts himself off with a hiss of pain, feeling the object in his chest shudder and shrink back from Strange’s magic.

 _“Ow,_ you _asshole--"_

“I’m trying to save your _life,_ Stark. I would appreciate a few moments of silence so I can _focus.”_

Tony obliges to the request, if only to remember how to breathe properly as the spindly limbs squeeze at his lungs. He grits his teeth as the pain worsens, barely managing to inhale as his chest spasms.

 _“Stop it,”_ he bites out, “I’m calling uncle, _ferrum,_ get _out--”_ Strange pulls back as soon as he voices his discomfort, a grim set to his features. Tony’s chest resettles itself, releasing the hold on his lungs as he takes in a shaky breath.

“Well that… doesn’t bode well.” Strange says vaguely, before turning back to his book. Tony watches him for a moment as he catches his breath, but he doesn’t continue.

“...I’m going to need more information than that,” he says, leaning over to try and glean _any_ information from the pages. It looks like chicken scratch, really, so that’s not going to help him at all.

“The issue with certain strands of magic is that it’s nearly impossible for other magic users to reverse a spell that has been placed,” Strange finally continues. “At least, in this case, not without grave consequences.”

“So you know what it is, then,” Tony replies evenly, trying to wrap his head around the concept of being _cursed._ If Strange can’t fix it, then what can they do?

“Are you in love, Tony?” is the next question out of Strange’s mouth, to which Tony freezes entirely. He can’t help it-- he thinks of soft sunlight through blonde strands of hair, bright blue eyes and laughter that warms him to his very core. He thinks of gentle hands-- an _artist’s_ hands, ones that learned to carry the weight of the world on the strap of a shield. _Love._ Right. That’s probably the word for it.

“...What does that have to do with anything?” He watches him warily.

“It’s a simple yes or no question.” It’s more a statement than meant for cruelty. He waits patiently.

“Yes.” It almost hurts to say aloud. Tony doesn’t understand how a single word can feel like a lead weight on his chest.

“Do they know?”

He thinks of Steve and his kindness, of how easily he calls him _best friend,_ of how easily he expresses his admiration for Tony. His heart clenches painfully in his chest, nausea churning in his stomach.

“No, they don’t.”

“Well, we have _some_ hope, then.” Strange begins to pace, his hands behind his back as he considers the problem at hand. Tony can feel the sharp prickle of anxiety along his spine.

“That still doesn’t explain what this is, Strange. What does me being in-- in _love_ have to do with the spell? How would she even _know_ something like that?”

“Her magic, as far as I can tell, was centered on _living_ creations, not just plants,” he explains, turning to Tony once more as he ceases pacing. “Humanity falls under that category. Given her affinity for botany, it seems she simply... mixed the two. The object lodged in your chest is a _seed,_ meant to act as a parasite and feed on your emotions. This one in particular is tied directly to your affections for someone else; your _“greed,”_ as she put it.”

There is a beat of silence as Tony tries to process this. She… she cursed him with a love spell. Of course she did-- why _wouldn’t_ she, right? It takes all of his willpower to swallow down his bubbling hysteria. The _one time_ he falls in love, and this is what he gets.

“So what’s the _grave consequence_ if I get you to remove it, then?” he asks.

“Given that I’m not the one who cast it, I would have to remove the emotion the spell is attached to entirely. Which is to say that I would have to remove any trace of emotion you _have_ for him.”

“Absolutely _not,”_ the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. A few beats, and Strange’s statement catches up to him. “Wait-- _him?_ How did you--”

“The spell is directly tied to your emotions, Tony. I reached out to it to understand it, and it replied in kind. I knew, but I wasn’t sure that _you_ did.” The realization hits him like a tidal wave. Strange _knows._

“...You said that we had hope,” he clenches his jaw, plowing forward, “what does that mean? What can I do, if you can’t help me?”

“It’s based upon unrequited love,” Strange shrugs, “if you confess, and he returns your feelings, then the spell will dissipate on its own.”

“What happens if he-- if he doesn’t?” Tony can’t imagine a life in which he _does,_ can’t imagine any outcome that doesn’t end in heartbreak for him. There’s a _reason_ he hasn’t said anything before this, and now his life-- of _all_ things-- now hangs in the balance.

“Then it will spread,” he replies grimly, “it’s a parasitic plant, Tony. It will feed on you, and it will kill you, in the end.

“Everything’s just coming up daisies, isn’t it?” Tony says, a ghost of a smile on his face, “So give it to me straight, Doc; how much time do I have left?”

“Gallows humor, of course,” Strange mutters, though he doesn’t seem inclined to play along. “I would give you a few months at most, if it continues growing at its current rate. Though from what I read, it is common for the growth rate to increase when in close proximity to the… individual you have feelings for.”

“You’re telling me--” a strangled, startled laugh, edging on manic, “No, of course you are, why wouldn’t you be, it would just be too damn _easy--”_ Tony runs his fingers through his hair as he speaks, as if the motion will stop the sudden tremors in his hands. The more time he spends with Steve, with his _best friend,_ his _captain,_ is going to get him killed even faster.

Tony’s well aware of the shitty things he’s done in his life-- even more aware of karmic attempts to _take_ said life-- but he really would like to know which action in particular warranted this sort of torture.

“If you tell him, there is still a chance you could be saved,” Strange continues, “it’s as simple as that, Stark.”

The thought alone makes him sick. He _knows_ Steve doesn’t have feelings for him, and if he found out… the guilt would eat him alive. He already carries _so much_ weight on his shoulders, caring for the entire team as he does. He frets over Tony when he doesn’t _eat,_ for god’s sake; he can only imagine what he would do if he knew he was the only one who could save him.

“I can’t do that to him,” Tony replies numbly, “you know how he is, Strange-- the guilt would _kill_ him. It wouldn’t be his fault, but he would never see it that way.”

“You can’t be serious,” Stephen says incredulously, “Tony, this is going to _kill_ you. You’re just going to let it happen because you’re, what, _afraid?”_

“You don’t get to judge me for this, Strange,” Tony bites back, “and you don’t get to make the decision _for_ me, either.”

“And what happens if your _Captain_ comes to consult me himself, hm? Do you think I’m going to _lie_ to him for you? I may not always enjoy your company, Stark, but that doesn’t make you any less important to this universe. Do you expect me to just allow that to happen?” It’s a backhanded compliment if he’s ever heard one, but Strange’s sarcastic tone is enough to put him on edge.

“Either way I’m _fucked!”_ he stands abruptly, nearly knocking over his coffee in the process and jarring his injured shoulder. He can’t find it in himself to care. “Either I die without Steve knowing, or I die _with_ him knowing. There’s no other way around it.”

“If you weren’t such a _coward_ you would see that there’s still a chance for you to--”

Tony is stepping forward into his space in an instant, snarling as he does so, “Just because _you_ would be selfish enough to risk devastating someone like that doesn’t mean _I am,_ Strange!”

He’s breathing heavily, pain bursting against his ribcage. “I’m not going to hurt him. Not like this. _Never_ like this. That’s final. If you won’t lie for me-- _fine._ But I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure he _never_ finds out.” There is silence between them, watching each other in guarded restraint. The tension threatens to break them both.

“...You’re still hurting him, no matter what you do.” Strange replies quietly, his gaze sharp. “Hasn’t he already lost enough?”

“Take me back to the tower, we’re done here.” Tony snaps, tearing his gaze away at last and turning his back on him. Stephen sighs in resignation, but draws his hand up to spark the portal to life. The Sanctum gives way to the familiar heart of the workshop, and Tony doesn’t hesitate to step through.

“You’re signing your own death sentence, Stark,” Strange says in lieu of goodbye.

“I’ve died enough times, Strange,” Tony shoots back, “it doesn’t have a tendency to stick.” He doesn’t bother to face Strange again as the portal closes behind him with a snap.

“It will, this time,” Stephen says to the empty room. “It will, and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”

 

* * *

  

The mood in the tower for the next few weeks is more than sombre. The others take the news as well as he expects them to-- which is to say, all of them react very differently.

Bruce and Steve seem more inclined to try to help than anything, pushing down the apprehension in favor of trying to find a solution. Thor comes to him with apologies, guilt-ridden that he hadn’t joined the fight sooner. Clint reacts to it as he does everything, which is with humor to break the tension. Natasha watches him with curious glances, but otherwise, they carry on as usual.

He can’t fly anymore. The strain that it puts on the ensnared arc reactor is too much to keep him alive _and_ sustain the suit. (Now _that_ had been a blowout fight, even if Tony knew that Steve was right to keep him grounded.) The Mark VII stands in the Hall of Armor, encased beside all its predecessors. He knows it’s dangerous to keep them all together, much less operational-- but he knows that Jarvis will keep them safe. The Avengers-- his _family--_ will keep them safe. They’re meant to go to Rhodey anyway, should anything ever happen to the War Machine armor. Even if he refuses to take the title, Tony knows that Rhodey will be a better Iron Man than the world could ever deserve.

Speaking of which, Rhodey and Pepper take the news about the same as they did last time. Which is to say, they’re grateful he actual _tells them_ this time around. Pepper is as strong as they come, blinking back tears as she hugs him tight. She promises to take care of everything that she can, while they try to find the cure for him. Rhodey accepts his place on the team as back up, the War Machine armor at the ready whenever they call for him.

He feels so, so guilty for lying to all of them. Maybe he shouldn’t, because he knows that he’s doing this for the right reasons, but-- it still hurts to think that he’s making all of them _hope_ for a solution that won’t be found. He wants to tell all of them that it’s best just to accept what’s coming, and that they should make the most of the time they have left.

Which is exactly what he does.

Not in the reckless way he once had, mind you, because Monaco was a mistake no matter how he looks at it-- and maybe he should have _warned_ Pepper before trying to make her CEO immediately, but. He’s really trying to stay tame this time, really.

He spends more time with the others, now. He pesters Bruce in the lab more often than not, and asks Thor to regale every story of battle he could ever think of. He ends up in the training gym with Clint and Natasha, because watching them spar is like watching a very violent display of gymnastics. At least the whole _dying_ thing gives him an excuse to not join in.

At some point, he arranges a movie night up on the rooftop, with as much cushy seating as possible and a huge projector on the side of the building. It’s disgustingly domestic, and it’s easily one of the best nights of his life. They watch the first Godfather and insist upon starting the second, even though half of them are asleep by the end of it.

“Hey,” Clint stage whispers to Tony, tossing a piece of popcorn at him and pulling him out of his half doze.

“What do you want?” he grumbles, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Nothing, just,” Clint grimaces slightly, clearly allergic to the whole _feelings_ thing. “I just uh. Just wanted to say thanks. For everything. Like I know you’re not actually gonna-- ya know. But still. Statement’s still out there. You’re a better guy than they’ve ever made you out to be, Stark.”

“Thanks. I think.” he replies, trying to maintain a casual tone and just narrowly missing the mark. If Clint notices, he doesn’t acknowledge it. He just nods and turns back to the movie.

As for Steve, well-- Steve is a different story.

He spends plenty of time with him down in the workshop, either sketching or tapping away at something on the tablet Tony had given him, or talking to the bots. Tony doesn’t mind it, even if the tightness in his chest gets worse every time he gets close. It’s worth it, just to see Steve smile at something ridiculous DUM-E is doing, or laugh at a dumb joke Tony made.

_I hope he’s worth dying for._

The first time he chokes up flower petals, it’s after a long day with Steve at the museum. Tony’s never been particularly fond of art exhibits, but-- he’s made an exception for Steve, every single time. (Pepper doesn’t seem to appreciate that in the slightest, but he’s also pretty sure she _knows,_ so she has to understand on _some_ level.) Steve spends literal _hours_ moving from piece to piece, admiring and pointing out any detail he sees fit to share with Tony. Tony doesn’t understand most of it, granted, but Steve’s passion still bleeds through, and it leaves a kindled warmth in his belly that he isn’t sure what to do with.

“I should take you to the Louvre sometime,” Tony tells him at some point during the day. “You’ve only been once, right?”

“During the war, sure,” Steve replies, “didn’t have much time for sightseeing, though. Just got a glance at it. I don’t really think we have the kind of vacation time for that, though.”

“There is _always_ time for Paris, Steven,” Tony sniffs, if only to be dramatic. It at least tugs a smile out of him, so he counts it as a win.

“Nah, I’m alright here, I think. Thank you for coming with me,” he says. “I know it’s not really your preferred way to spend the day, but I appreciate the company.”

 _I’m running out of time,_ he wants to say. _I’m running out of time, and I can’t waste another minute staying away from you._

He coughs up the flower petals once they’ve returned home, sitting in the workshop alone after Steve has gone to bed. One moment he’s fine, the next, he’s doubled over on the ground with a hand against his mouth, trying not to dry heave. His mouth tastes like perfume and wax, the flower petals sticking to the palm of his hand. He stares down at the bright yellows and blues as the nausea passes, only numbly aware that those came _out_ of him.

“Jarvis, scan--?” he breathes out, the words heavy in his mouth.

“They are sunflower petals, Sir. They often mean loyalty and admiration. The others I believe to be rose petals, though they are not naturally found in shades of blue. Roses are often associated with immense love; the blue shade is a symbol of the unattainable, or a dream that cannot be claimed.” The AI seems apologetic, if anything. “Shall I contact one of the others, Sir?”

“No,” he mutters, crushing the petals in his hand, “there’s nothing they can do.”

 

* * *

 

It’s a miracle that Tony can actually hear Natasha enter the workshop, her bare feet softly padding against the concrete. Considering her skills, she’s not heard unless she wants to be. He knows it’s more for his own benefit than anything, but he still appreciates it-- it’s a testament to the relationship they’ve built over these past few years, even if they generally refuse to acknowledge it.

He should have spent more time with her, he thinks. For all of their banter, he regrets not saying more. But he will make due with the time he has left.

“Jarvis said you wanted to see me?” Natasha says as she steps up beside his workbench, giving a cursory glance to his work. Even in their disassembled state, she can still easily recognize her Widow’s Bite gauntlets. Natasha gives him the slightest tilt of her head, a question in of itself. Tony has her attention, now; he takes it as his cue to explain.

“So I’ve been thinking,” he begins, fiddling with the gutted attachments, “I know you said you don’t like to be weighed down by unnecessary tech, which-- I get it, I do, every time I look at Rhodey’s suit I break out in hives, my shoulder hurts just thinking about it-- but I had a few upgrade ideas in the case that you _might_ need it at some point. Doesn’t hurt to be prepared, right?” Tony knows well enough that he’s already rambling, fueled by low level anxiety and too much caffeine. But he _needs_ to do this, he needs to make sure that his team is safe, that they have everything they need before--

“Tony.” Natasha speaks quietly, “How are you feeling?” He should have known she'd sidestep every word he said.

“Never been better,” the reply comes automatically. It's accompanied by an attempt at a dazzling smile, but he clearly falls short. She looks unimpressed as she crosses her arms over her chest, leaning her hip against the desk and looking over him with a critical eye. He knows there’s nothing to hide from her _physically_ in regards to his health, but he still feels like he should be hiding _something._ Maybe it just comes with the territory of dying near a superspy.

Either way, he still feels exposed; his impending death is a live wire, as obvious as the glow of the arc reactor in his chest. He was an idiot, he realizes, to ever think he could hide it from the others. But he'll be damned if he doesn't take the cure to his grave.

“I’m serious,” he continues to bluff, “fit as a fiddle. I could probably run a marathon if I wanted. Not that I do, but I could--”

Almost as if on cue, he can feel the vines in his chest shift and squeeze, stealing the breath from his lungs and pulling at his ribcage. Black spots dance across his vision as he tries to inhale, a harsh shudder running through him as the pain spreads. It radiates from his chest like a wildfire, burning beneath his skin. God, it _hurts._ He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe and there’s nothing to numb the pain, there are hands-- _vines,_ he tries so hard to convince himself, _vines--_ they are not Yinsen’s hands, they are not ripping at his sternum and digging for shrapnel, he can’t smell the dirt and gunpowder and _metal--_

“-ony, Tony, listen to the sound of my voice, stay with me, you’re safe--”

Natasha’s voice ebbs at his conscious, gently pulling him back to the present and out of the cave in Afghanistan. He’s still breathing hard, his heart hammering in his chest as he tries to get his bearings back. He can feel the sweat building on his brow, the harsh tremor in his hands-- but he can feel Natasha’s hand on his shoulder, the cold of the concrete floor beneath them. Wait-- when did they end up on the ground?

He hadn’t even realized he’d closed his eyes until they’re fluttering open, head in a daze as he takes in the scene around him. He’s curled in on himself, both hands over the arc reactor as if to guard it. His desk chair is knocked over a few feet away, the hardware he was working on strewn about the ground. He must have fallen, then-- and taken more than a few things with him.

“Tony,” Natasha repeats his name, pulling his attention to her. She’s knelt beside him, one hand still resting on his shoulder. Her touch is comforting without being overwhelming, keeping him grounded without caging him in. She’s concerned for him-- it’s clear in the furrow of her eyebrows, the slight downturn to her mouth. Natasha doesn’t wear her emotions on her sleeve by any means, but Tony knows that look well enough by now. If he has _Natasha_ worried, then it must be bad.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he wheezes softly. The pain in his chest has dulled to an ache, the vines settling into place once more. He’s fairly sure he can feel flower petals tickling at the back of his throat, but he does his best to swallow them down.

“You’re getting worse,” Natasha comments, ignoring his weak joke entirely. She removes her hand from his shoulder, though she looks as though she’d still like to check him over for injuries. His tailbone feels particular bruised, but aside from that and the garden growing in his lungs, he seems no more worse for wear.

“‘s what happens when you’re dying,” Tony replies, leaning his head back against the desk. God, he can feel the exhaustion down to his _toes._ This dying thing is really starting to get old. Natasha leans back beside him, seemingly content to stay on the floor with him. Maybe she’s just giving him time to recover.

DUM-E has come rolling over to investigate the commotion, whirring softly in concern as he extends his claw to Tony. “Look, now we’ve even got this bucket of bolts fretting over me. You’re all a bunch of mother hens.”

“You’re lucky I’m the one who came to check on you, then.” Natasha pats DUM-E’s arm reassuringly. He seems to appreciate the gesture, if his happy chirps are anything to go by. “Steve’s been pacing so much today I think he may have actually worn a groove in the floor.”

Tony’s heart gives a very painful lurch in his chest, though it has nothing to do with the parasitic flowers that have taken up refuge there. “What’s got him on edge today? It’s not like we’ve learned anything new.”

“He’s waiting to hear back from Xavier.”

Of course he wasn’t going to wait around. Tony shouldn’t have expected any less. “I told him Strange would figure it out. Why did he go to the old man?”

“If Strange is wrong about Arna, then Steve’s going to make sure we have all of our bases covered. If there’s any chance that she’s a mutant, or if the X-Men have encountered magic like hers before, he wants to know.” She sighs quietly, running a hand through her hair. “I guess we really don’t have a lot of other options at this point.”

“If we do, I’m sure Steve will find them,” Tony says, aiming for playful but falling painfully flat. “...He’s too stubborn to do anything else.”

“Mm, I know,” Natasha agrees easily, tilting her head slightly to look at him, “Almost as stubborn as someone else I know.”    

“Rock and a hard place, Nat,” he tries for a shrug, but winces at it tugs at the soreness in his chest.

She watches him with clear eyes, studying him in a way that makes his skin itch. At this point, it doesn’t matter if Natasha sees his pain or not-- she just saw him collapse, after all. But he has a feeling that’s not why she’s looking at him like that.

“Is that why you’re lying to us about the cure, then?”

A beat of silence follows.

Tony should have seen this coming from a mile away. He has two superspies under his roof-- even his carefully crafted poker face can’t get him out of this one. _Rock and a hard place,_ he echoes to himself, because he’s not going down without a fight.

“What reason would I have for lying, Natasha? You remember the part where I’m _dying,_ right? Strange couldn’t help me, and I meant it. You can ask him yourself if you want.” _That_ wasn’t technically a lie, either. Strange can’t help him-- _no one_ can.

“Tony,” Natasha says, her voice far softer than usual, “Do you remember when you were dying of palladium poisoning?”

“Are we about to go through a whole list of all the times I almost died? You’re going to have to narrow it down, especially since there was the time I _actually_ died--”

“Once SHIELD began to take note of your reckless behavior, I was sent in to keep tabs on you,” she continues as if he hasn’t spoken, “when we realized you were dying, we knew we couldn’t afford to lose you. So we found as many resources as we possibly could to help you save your own life.”

“Alright, thanks, I get it,” he says, gritting his teeth and the sudden wave of nausea that rolls over him, “I was an important asset to SHIELD and they needed me alive, _I get it._ But if you’re trying to tell me that my old man had some notes lying around about deadly flower _bullshit--”_

“That’s not what I’m trying to tell you, Tony,” Natasha interrupts him, a steel in her voice, “I’m trying to tell you that it was _different._ You were reckless, and you were hurting, but you were still fighting to find something that worked. Even when Fury and I confronted you together--”

“--ambushed, ambushed is the word I would use--”

“Will you stop trying to deflect and _listen_ to me?” Her voice barely raises an octave, but the effect is still the same. Tony’s jaw snaps shut, though he still watches her with guarded eyes. He doesn’t like where this is going, and he’s not going to let her pull his defense apart like it’s nothing.

“...We were _weeks_ from losing you. But you were still willing to take a chance on us, to take the scraps of information we had and _make something_ of it. You were at the end of your rope, Tony, but you still didn’t _give up._ Not like you are now.” Her words hang heavy in the air for a moment, before Tony decides that he’s had _enough._

“You know what? You’re right, I’m definitely not listening anymore,” he bites back, trying to stumble to his feet on his own. He grips the edge of the desk for support as he blinks back the black spots that dance across his vision. “I had no idea what the fuck I was doing then, and I sure as shit have no idea _now._ So yeah, maybe I jumped one chance I had to survive, but that doesn’t mean I’m-- what, _suicidal?”_ The half-truths taste like bile in his throat, as sickly sweet as the flowers in his lungs. He can’t even _look_ at her as she stands beside him, utterly silent as she moves, a gentle hand placed against his arm. He fights back every urge to shake her off.

“I can’t fix this, Natasha, I _can’t.”_ Tony chokes out, his voice far weaker than he intends. He wants to be angry, absolute. All he has left is  _grief._ “This isn’t something I can pick apart and put back together, I-- I’m out of my fucking depth here, and I don’t have a chance in _hell.”_

“Then let us _help_ you,” the urgency in Natasha’s voice is only a slight tremor, a soft undercurrent-- but he _knows_ that sound. It’s the tone of someone injured in the field with no backup, it’s the sound of a situation going south so fast they barely have time to react.

Natasha is _afraid._ Or, at least, as close as she ever gets to it. He doesn’t know how to process this, that this fear is for him alone. Surely, she of all people can understand a story where the heroes don’t survive.    

“I don’t know why you’re keeping information from us, and I know I’m the last person who should be lecturing you on keeping secrets,” Her empty amusement echoes between them both, “But if there’s _any_ chance that we can save you, Stark, you have to know that we’re going to take it.”

“I’m telling you, Natasha, there isn’t. If Strange can’t help me, then neither can you.” There’s a sense of finality to his words, something so stubborn and deadset that she drops her hand from his arm. For the briefest moment he thinks that maybe she’s left him already, before she speaks again.

“You know that none of this works without you, don’t you?” Natasha speaks so quietly he’s not even sure if he’s meant to hear the words. “Not because of your tech, or your money, or your tower. We _need_ you on this team, Stark. Because we’re all…” She trails off, but he can put the pieces together himself. _We’re all lost. Outcasts. Unforgivable pasts that were meant to be redeemed. A man out of time, a god with a kingdom on his shoulders, a man who calls himself monster, assassins with nothing to call home-- A warmonger with hands so bloodstained he could never hope to scrape them clean. But we try, god, do we all try. We’ve built our own family here, a legacy to call our own._

_You’re going to rip us apart at the seams._

“If you’re done,” Tony keeps his voice steady, but his hands tremble with the weight of it all, “I have work to do, Natasha.”

Nothing but silence greets him. He waits, and he waits. Finally, Jarvis is the first to speak.

“Agent Romanoff has left the room, Sir,” even the AI sounds subdued, hesitant to disturb him.

Tony doesn’t even have the time to reply before the vines in his chest _squeeze,_ digging in against the arc reactor, choking the air out of his lungs. The nausea hits him like a tidal wave. He doubles over with a hand over his mouth as he’s wracked by sickening coughs, a flurry of flower petals ripping themselves past his lips. He can taste the perfume of them on his tongue, velvet soft against his teeth.

The roots release him, and he gasps for air as tears gather in his eyes. He crushes the petals in his hand-- crimson red, bright yellow, soft purple-- before dropping them to the table, to the floor below. He swallows down the ones that are left in his mouth, grimacing as he does so.

 _“Jarvis,”_ he wheezes out, but he already knows the answers will come on their own.

“Yellow roses are meant to represent a deep bond of friendship,” Jarvis tells him, voice somber, “the dark red is interpreted to mean romantic love, but most often represent a deep grief. The nightshade…” he’s never known the AI to hesitate, but he knows he can’t be taking _this_ long to analyze.

“Nightshade represents truth, Sir.” he says at last.

“Truth.” Tony echoes, hollow laughter bubbling out of him, “Right. Right-- of fucking _course_ they do.”

He inhales as deeply as he can, feeling the creak and bend of the vines against his ribcage. They’re tighter than they were before, he realizes numbly. He’s running out of time faster than he hoped.

He grabs the gauntlets from the concrete, tossing them onto the table without the care they deserve. He sits, and he works, and he breathes, while he still can.

There is so much more to be done.

 

* * *

 

He pretends he can’t see the worried looks Steve keeps giving him. He pretends that it doesn’t hurt to _breathe_ every time he’s around him. He pretends that he isn’t dying just because he had the audacity to fall in love with one of his best friends.

He pretends, and he pretends, and he pretends.

He hopes that Steve can forgive him, someday. He hopes that he’ll find someone that makes him happy. He knows that he’ll find some way to move on without him-- they all will. It’s just a matter of letting go, himself.

 

* * *

 

It’s nearly the end of month two, and there’s blood soaking the flower petals when he coughs them up.

It’s hard to tell, initially-- the flowers he’s coughing up now are spindly, awful things, ones that catch in his throat and tear at his cheeks. They taste like copper and rot, and it takes too long for Tony to realize they’re coated in his own blood.

“Red spider lilies,” Jarvis offers the analysis late one night, “They are most prominently known in Japanese culture as a representative of death. Their bulbs are known to be poisonous, though I am not certain this will affect your illness.”

No, he thinks as he wipes the blood from his mouth. No, being poisoned would be kinder than this.

He’s holed himself up in the penthouse, figuring it’ll be better to go here than anywhere else. The other Avengers have been flitting in and out, hesitant to leave him alone for any extended period of time. He knows that Jarvis _must_ be monitoring his vitals for them. Every spike in blood pressure or the slightest cough brings one of them to his door. He almost wants to be affronted at how much they’re coddling him, but he… he gets it. They’re afraid of him passing without them; they’re afraid of him dying alone.

Steve hasn’t come to see him in two days.

He’s not sure how he’s supposed to feel about it, but there’s a twist at his heart that has nothing to do with the vines that rest there. He knows that Steve cares for him in some capacity-- he’s called him his best friend more times than he can count, after all. Maybe he just doesn’t want to see Tony like this, wheezing and weak. He can’t find it in him to blame him for it, but… if he’s going to die for love, for Steve, then he at least wants to see him one last time.

He’s taken refuge in the lounge at this point, making himself a permanent nest on the couch. He hasn’t stopped working, by any means-- he has his tablet on his lap, and plenty of holoscreens surrounding him to work from. He can’t seem to stay focused on one area; there’s still so much he needs to complete for them, and not enough time. There’s never enough time. He should have been better prepared for this.

It’s a small interlude between visits when Jarvis speaks up, though it’s not to offer guidance for his projects, or announce a new arrival.

“May I say something, Sir?” the AI asks, snapping Tony’s attention away from his work in an instant. He frowns slightly, tossing his tablet off to the side before sitting back against the cushions.

“Yeah, of course, J. You’ve never really uh-- asked for permission before. Something up?” Tony generally doesn’t make a habit of staring up at the ceiling when talking to Jarvis, unlike the other tower occupants, but he feels like he should make an exception. It seems important, for some reason.

“I understand that I am limited in my emotional capabilities, due to the... nature, of my existence. However, I would like to express that it has been a pleasure working with you all of these years, Sir. I know that you have prepared me for this loss, but I am doubtful that I will not miss you in some capacity.”

Tony can only remember hearing Jarvis’s voice like this once, subdued and somber as he asks, “ _Sir, shall I try Miss Potts?”_ He doesn’t know what to do with the heavy helplessness that settles into his bones.

There is a part of him that very nearly _regrets_ giving Jarvis as much personality, as much independence as he has. He never imagined it would be an almost cruelty, to make him grieve alongside everyone else. But at least the AI will be apart of his legacy, something self-sustaining; he will continue to evolve and grow, even after Tony is long gone.

“I’m gonna miss you too, J,” Tony replies quietly, voice thick. “...You’re going to take care of them for me, right?” He knows he doesn’t need to elaborate any further, but there’s still a biting anxiety that needs addressed.

“Your parameters have been quite clear, Sir. I will do everything within my power to care for, protect, and guide the Avengers in your absence. Even if they do not choose to remain within the tower, they will have a home here, waiting.” Then, softer. “...I will be waiting. I will not let them, or you, down.”

“Don’t think you ever could, Jarvis,” Tony says, an irrefutable honesty to his words. He knows that Jarvis will do what he can for the team, and that’s all he can ask of him. The AI was an extension of himself, after all-- meant to do what he couldn’t, meant to process and extrapolate all of the data Tony couldn’t hope to memorize. Jarvis is the best sidekick he could have ever asked for, really. He just hopes it’s enough to leave behind.

“Thank you, Sir.” It’s simple and precise, as Jarvis always is. If Tony strains hard enough, he can almost hear the bittersweet undercurrent beneath his words. He pretends it can’t be real, instead.

“I should inform you as well,” the AI continues after a brief moment, “that Captain Rogers has just arrived in the elevator. He is asking permission for entry, Sir.”

Tony does his best to tamper down the sudden spike in his heart rate, the way the sharp perfume tickles at the back of his throat. He can taste the lilies in his mouth, the rust of his own blood.

He swallows it down. This may be his last chance to talk to Steve, after all.

“What’s with all of you and asking permission?” he sighs, trying to sound annoyed but falling closer to resigned. “Let him in.”

It’s only a matter of moments before Steve appears in the doorway, an alarming number of emotions flitting across his face as he catches sight of Tony. He’s pretty sure he catches the trademarked kicked puppy look, and something that looks close to volatile anger, but there’s a good chance he’s just seeing things. He’s dying, after all. He can use that excuse.

“Well aren’t you a star spangled sight for sore eyes?” Tony says with a lazy salute, trying to appear as casual as possible. He still drinks in the sight of him, dressed down to jeans and a faded shirt, the familiar leather jacket and wind tousled hair-- _had he been out on the bike?_ Huh. That was something to consider, then.

“I’m sorry, Tony,” are the first words to come stumbling out of Steve’s mouth. He grimaces at it, as though it’s not the statement he wanted to lead with. Tony’s fairly sure he reacts the same way.

“Don’t worry about it, Cap. I’m sure my overbearing caretakers were keeping you updated. I’m still kicking, anyway. No harm, no foul.” He tries for a grin. He knows it misses the mark by a wide margin, if Steve’s twisted frown is anything to go by.

“I told you not to talk like that,” Steve sighs heavily as he sits across from him on the couch. Between the clear tension of his shoulders and the closed off look in his eyes, Tony’s fairly sure there’s a chasm in the upholstery between them. He tries not to dwell on it too harshly.

“Sorry. Old habits, I guess.” It’s a shitty excuse and he knows it, but he tosses it out anyway. “So what’ve you been up to?” He tries for the subtle approach, instead of outright saying _I’m familiar enough with your wardrobe to know when you’ve been out on your motorcycle._ Oh wow, it sounds even worse in his head, actually.

“I’ve been…out.” Steve says, the words stilted and hesitant. Tony raises an eyebrow at him.

“...Okay?” It would be an understatement to say that Steve’s clearly hiding something. “You don’t have to tell me, Cap. It’s not a big--”

 _“--I went to see Strange.”_ Steve blurts out before he can even finishing speaking. Tony snaps his mouth shut so quickly he teeth nearly rattle with it. A thousand different responses run through his head, though half are far less than kind.

“Alright,” is what he settles for, trying incredibly hard to keep his voice steady. “What made you go see the wizard? He isn’t sweeping in to save the day at the last second, is he?”

“I went to see him because I already went to everyone else, Tony,” he says, his gaze guiltily flicking down to his hands for a moment, not able to meet his gaze. “...Natasha brought some concerns to me, and I thought I should--”

“Oh, _please_ don’t tell me you believe that shit too,” he doesn’t recognize the venom in his own voice, hackles raised as soon as Natasha’s name is spoken. _She couldn’t have told him. Please, God, tell me she didn’t._

“I didn’t, at first,” Steve says evenly, not rising to the bait. But there’s a furrow to his brow that wasn’t there before, and Tony knows he’s getting to him already. “I wanted to believe that you wouldn’t lie to us. But I couldn’t… I couldn’t take that risk, Tony. If there was any chance…”

“Well there _isn’t,”_ he bites back, rising to his feet before he even realizes it. “But thanks for the vote of confidence, Rogers. I really appreciate it. It’s actually pretty great to know that my teammates think I have a goddamn _death wish!”_ Just raising his voice is enough to leave him winded, but he’s not going to back down now. He doesn’t know what Strange told Steve, so if he can keep him at arm’s length, maybe he can make it out of this.

“I don’t have to _think_ anything, Tony, not if it’s true!” Steve fires back, standing to his feet as soon as Tony moves. “I _wanted_ to believe you, but I already had concerns of my own. If Natasha was seeing the same thing-- I couldn’t take that risk.”

“Well _congratulations,_ Captain, I guess you were _right,”_ Tony replies sardonically, “So what did Strange tell you, then? What was my big, bad secret, huh? What has you so _fucking_ convinced that I haven’t done everything in my power to survive this?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Steve grinds out between clenched teeth, “I don’t want to _fight you_ about this. I just…” he exhales harshly, tugging his fingers through the tangled strands of his hair. Tony is struck by just how _tired_ he looks; there’s a haggard weariness to his frame, something Tony hadn’t been sharp enough to catch before. But _now,_ now it’s all that he can see.

“What did he tell you, Steve?” Tony asks again, quieter, yet somehow just as cold.Steve doesn’t respond at first, just drops his hand to the back of his neck and breathes deeply. It aches just to _look_ at him, seeing what all of this is doing to him-- but Tony can’t take the risk, now. They’re so close to the end, and Tony won’t let him break under the guilt that is sure to follow.

“...He told me about the cure,” Steve says at last, turning to face him again. “He didn’t… he didn’t tell me who it was, but-- I know now, what it would take to save you.” There’s a flicker of a grief Tony can’t name across his face, and for a brief moment he would swear it looks like _heartbreak--_

A shudder wracks through him so harshly it threatens to bring him down entirely. The coughs are ripped out of him not a moment later, hacking up more of the lilies into his hand. It takes him a moment to realize that they’re accompanied by smaller, blood-splattered yellow petals-- _sunflowers,_ he realizes numbly-- before breaking into another coughing fit.

He can see Steve stepping towards him out of the corner of his eye, though Tony flinches away before he can get any closer.

 _“Don’t,”_ he rasps out, wiping at the blood on his lips with the back of his hand. God, it _hurts._

“Tony…” Steve says his name so quietly, so grief-stricken, and it’s all that Tony can do not to break down right then and there. If anything, it only serves to make him _angrier._

“Well, now you know,” he chokes out a miserable laugh, the movement causing ripples of pain along his sternum. He drops the petals to the floor without any regard. “Of all the shit that could’ve killed me, it’s gonna be _love._ Pretty fucking ironic, isn’t it?” He collapses on the edge on the couch again, head in his hands as he tries to catch his breath. Nothing but silence follows.

“...Did you tell them, then?” Steve asks quietly from somewhere beside him, sounding just as wrecked as Tony _feels._ But that doesn’t make any sense-- is it just because Tony’s in pain? He’s always been sombre when one of them is hurt, but not… not like this.

He considers lying for a moment, telling Steve _“Of course I told them, my life was on the line!”_ But he knows the it will come out just as hollow as every other lie he’s told. He just shakes his head, wearily rubbing at his eyes.

“Not in so many words, no,” Tony mumbles, “but I already know how he--” he grimaces at the slipup, “I know how he feels about me. It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing I can do, Cap.”

“But if you didn’t-- if you didn’t tell him, how do you already know?” Steve continues to question. Certainly not for the first time, Tony wonders if it is humanly possible to be more stubborn than Steve Rogers. He hates that it’s one of the things he loves most about him.

“I just _do,_ Steve. Alright? It doesn’t matter, you can let it go.”

“And what if you’re wrong? Tony, who _knows_ how long you have left? If you weren’t clear with-- with him, or if you didn’t tell him outright…” a grimace flickers across his features, “Unless he’s in a relationship already. Oh god, is it Rhodey--?”

 _“Alright,_ let’s stop while we’re ahead here,” Tony grinds out, “No, it’s not Rhodey. I gave him advice to help get him with _Pepper,_ why would I do that if I had feelings for him?”

“Because it’s who you _are,_ Tony! It’s what you _do,_ every single time. You put everyone else’s feelings before your own, and you act like it doesn’t matter if you’re suffering or not.” Steve snaps, barrelling forward without giving Tony the chance to respond. “But it does, it matters _so much_ to the rest of us, to _me._ Can’t you see that? If you’re close enough with this guy to be-- to be in _love with him,_ then I’m sure he feels the same way I do. He wouldn’t want you to go through this without telling him the truth. Even if it hurts.”

Tony’s become intimately familiar with being breathless, these days, but he’s never felt as blindsided as he does now. His heart is constricting in his chest, stripped bare and broken. He ignores the prickling behind his eyes, the perfume of the flowers in his throat. He can feel the words on the tip of his tongue, _I love you, it’s you, can’t you see that? I can’t hurt you. I can’t._

He swallows them down, just as he always does.        

“I can’t put this on him, Steve,” Tony says weakly, “I know how he is. He’s got a guilt trip a mile wide, you know? He’s gonna find a way to blame himself for this, even though it’s not his fault he doesn’t… feel the same.”

Before he can think better of it, he adds quietly, “He’s got enough weight on his shoulders-- I don’t need to add my death to it.”

The next moment almost seems to happen in slow motion. Tony watches his words set in, the worried frown on Steve’s face turning more puzzled than anything. The click of the realization is almost _audible,_ a sudden understanding in his eyes. _Oh._ Oh _fuck._

“...Tony--”

“Whatever you’re thinking, Steve, _please_ don’t say it--”

“Tony, who _is_ it?” His voice isn’t demanding, intrusive; it’s careful, comforting. It makes Tony want to rip his hair out.

“I already told you, it doesn’t _matter_ who he is.” The vines are twisting and pulling, stealing the breath from his lungs. He knows. _He knows._

“It does matter,” he says quietly, “because if it’s who I think it is, I can… this means I can _help,_ Tony. _Please,_ let me help you.” He’s never heard Steve like this, desperation coloring his voice. But his words cut deeper than that; Tony _knew_ that he would try this, if he ever found out.

“You can’t,” Tony says, “I know that you think you can, but that’s not how this works, Steve. It has to be _real._ Whatever sacrifice you’re trying to make-- it’s not worth it.”

“I need you to be honest with me,” Steve says, leaving no room for argument, “I’m going to ask you _one_ question, Tony, and I need you to tell me the truth.” He steels himself, taking a steadying breath. “...Am I the reason for this?”

“Are you asking if I’m in love with you?” his voice cracks, shakes under the weight of the words. The flower petals stick to the back of his throat, choking him, _killing_ him. “You have to know the answer, don’t you? Please, Steve-- please don’t make me say it out loud. I can’t _do this_ to you.”

“If you tell me no, then I’ll believe you.” Steve says softly, the faintest tremor to his voice. “I won’t ask again, I swear. But if it’s true, I…” If it’s true. _If it’s true._ As if it could ever be anything _but_ true.

Just like that, the dam breaks.

 _“It’s you,”_ Tony chokes, meeting his gaze at last, “Of _course_ it’s you, Steve. It’s only ever-- it’s only ever _been_ you, but I never wanted to tell you like this. Fuck, I don’t know if I would have ever told you at _all.”_ he bites out a bitter laugh, “I’m too much of a coward. But I couldn’t let this be on you, Steve-- it’s not your fault if you don’t--”

 _“I do,”_ Steve cuts him off so sharply Tony doesn’t even have time to react, “I do. That’s why I wanted you to tell me.” He gives him a weak smile. “Because I’m in love with you, Tony. I have been for so, _so_ long. I wanted you to tell me because I can _save_ you.”

It feels like the floor’s been dropped out from underneath him, his head in a daze as the words settle over him. _He loves me._ No, it can’t be this easy. He has to be lying.

“I don’t believe you,” Tony says, “not because I don’t _want_ to, I just-- I know you, Steve. If this is the only way to keep me alive, then I know you’re going to take the risk.”

“Tony, you’re _still_ not listening to me,” Steve is smiling at him, something hopeful and incredulous and _warm._ “I’m trying to tell you that I’ve _been_ in love with you. It’s not because of this, it’s because you’re…” he pauses for a moment, trying to find the proper way to explain. “You’re selfless in everything you do. You’re the most brilliant man I’ve ever met, Tony. Half the time I’m scrambling just to keep up, but you never fault me for that, or make me feel like an idiot.

“I know I try not to talk about it much, but-- god, Tony, I _hated_ the future. I hated that everything was so bright and loud and _blinding._ I could adapt, sure, but I didn’t want to. Some days, I thought it would be better if they just put me right back in the ice.” It’s clear that it hurts him to say aloud, but he presses on. “But then there was you. You’re everything the future is, but _more._ You’re bright, and loud, and demanding, but not in the way that I thought you were. Or-- not in a bad way.” Steve frowns slightly, as though he’s realized he’s made a mistake. _That_ manages to startle a weak laugh out of Tony.

“I don’t think you confess your love to someone by insulting them first, Rogers,” Tony breathes out, the words light on his tongue. _That’s_ what this is-- Steve is telling him he loves him. He means it, in that undeniably earnest way of his. Oh, god. How could this possibly be real?

“Don’t interrupt, Stark, I’m trying to tell you something important,” he scowls, but there’s something softer underneath; the realization that Tony is finally starting to believe him. “I’m just a soldier, Tony. It’s hard not to feel inadequate next to you-- but _you_ have never made me feel that way. You treat me like an equal, even if I’m stumbling leagues behind you. You’ve shown me everything that the future-- that the _present_ could be.” He looks at him with undeniable adoration, a soft smile on his face. “You gave me a _home,_ Tony. You saved me, but that’s not the only reason why I love you; I want to save _you,_ but that’s not the only reason why I love you.”   

He hesitates for only a moment, before he’s reaching out to take Tony’s hand in his. Tony inhales sharply, anticipating the pain in his chest to following along with it-- but a moment passes, and nothing happens. He thinks he might be trembling, but he can’t tell; all he can feel is Steve’s hand against his, calloused and warm and absolutely perfect. He doesn’t want to let go.

“I thought you were a self-righteous prick when we first met,” are the first words out of his mouth, which is-- not what he wanted. At all. Steve’s snort of amusement tells him that he's being very hypocritical, considering he just chided Steve for doing the same exact thing. “You just got under my skin so _fast,_ like-- like you could see right through me. I hated it. But more than that, I hated that I wanted to prove you _wrong.”_ He drags his thumb against the back of his hand, trying to remember how to breathe properly.

“Maybe it was because of the stories my old man told me, I don’t know. Which is uh-- not what I wanted to bring up either, but. The point is that he always told me about _Captain America,_ and how great he was, and how he was this martyr of honesty and justice or _whatever--”_ he considers he’s being a bit dramatic, but continues anyway. “...But he never told me about _Steve Rogers._ Who is, well. I mean, you live up to _all_ of that, Steve.” He makes a vague gesture to _all_ of him with his free hand. “You know?”

“I… don’t, actually,”  Steve replies with a fondly exasperated grin.

“If someone could apply to be Prince Charming, Rogers, you’d be the man for the job,” he says, shaking his head, “You’re polite, you’re kind, you’re selfless-- you called Pepper _ma’am_ when you met her, and I think she nearly swooned. That’s not a thing people _do_ these days. But you’re also-- _god,_ you’re so stubborn, I feel like I’m talking to a brick wall sometimes. You’re reckless, but not in an outright stupid kind of way, more of a _“I enjoy controlled chaos”_ sort of way, and I find it ten different shades of attractive but I also have a _heart condition,_ Steven, you’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days--”

There’s an idle thought in the back of his head that maybe he should stop here, stop and consider the consequences of spilling his heart out for Steve to see. But something tells him he’s not lying, and if he is… well. This is Tony’s last chance to say _any_ of this.

“--and you yell at baseball games! You took it as a personal affront that the Dodgers moved to LA, and I shouldn’t find something like that _endearing,_ but here you are. I don’t know a damn thing about art, Steve, but I could listen to you talk about it for _hours_ . Your favorite book is Pride and Prejudice and I _hate it_ but I’ve watched every single movie adaption of it with you because it makes you _happy._ You have an entire wall on your floor dedicated to fan letters and art that you’ve received, and you answer every single one by _hand._ You talk my bots like they’re _real people,_ and you thank Jarvis every time you ask him about _anything._ I--” he inhales shakily, tightly squeezing Steve’s hand in his.

“....Falling in love with you was the easiest thing I’ve ever done, Steve.” Tony murmurs, “I don’t even know when it started. I just know that I looked at you one day and thought, _“Oh, I’m in love with him”_ and that was that. And then this…” he presses a hand to his chest, feeling an unexpectedly _steady_ pulse beneath it. “She said it was my greed, that would kill me. And maybe she was right, because I’ve never wanted _anything_ more than I want you, Steve. But I couldn’t let that be on you. I couldn’t take that risk. I thought it was better if I just…”

“If you just _died?”_ Steve asks, incredulous. “Tony, for as someone as brilliant as you are, you can be incredibly idiotic sometimes.”

_“Hey--”_

“You had no right to make that decision for me,” he continues sternly, “and I’d ask you to never do it again, but I’m hoping there won’t _be_ a next time in the first place.” Steve carefully places a hand against his jawline, tracing along his cheekbone with his thumb. Tony feels his breath catch in his lungs, but for once, it’s not due to the vines.

“I love you, Tony,” Steve tells him again. “...I-- don’t know if the words alone are supposed to break it, or-- how does this work?” It takes him a second to catch up and realize he means the _spell,_ considering he’s so close that all of Tony’s thoughts have been thrown directly out the window.

“I swear to god, if it’s true love’s kiss or some bullshit I’m actually going to _lose_ it,” he mutters, but finds himself pressing closer to Steve anyway. “Last chance, soldier. You sure about this?”

Steve’s answering smile is easily one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen in his life. “Never been more sure about anything.” Then his mouth is on his, and Tony’s thoughts white out entirely.

It’s the gentlest kiss anyone has ever given him, just the soft press of Steve’s mouth against his, but he can feel the warmth of it down to his very toes. He wants to press in and deepen the kiss, wants to tangle his fingers in his hair and _hold_ him--

A spasm rips through his chest, tearing him away with a pained gasp. He can feel the vines shifting and tugging, crushing the arc reactor and his heart in kind. He presses his face against Steve’s shoulder, shuddering against the white hot pain as it tears through his rib cage. Tony can hear his panicked voice, but it’s muffled by the pounding of his own heart in his ears. Then--

The hold on his lungs is released in an instant, gasping for air as though he’d been submerged. The roots shrink and withdraw further into his chest, until-- until he can’t feel them at all. Until the taste of the flower petals is gone from his mouth. Until all he can feel is the pounding of his own heart, and the heat of Steve against him.

“Tony?” Steve asks quietly, running a comforting hand through his hair. He realizes he’s gone entirely quiet, just relishing in the way he can breathe once more. The arc reactor still sits heavy against his sternum, yes-- but there is _nothing else._ It’s gone. _It’s gone._

The relieved laughter bubbles out of him not a second later, unshed tears springing to his eyes. He’s going to live; he’s going to live, and Steve _loves him._

“You meant it,” he laughs in absolute bewilderment, “I can’t believe-- you really _meant it.”_ It takes a moment for Steve to catch up, looking over him in concern before the realization hits. The hopeful, glowing smile he gives him makes his heart beat out the staccato of a hummingbird’s wings.

“Of course I did. I love you, and I’ll say it as many times as it takes for you to believe it,” Steve replies earnestly as he wraps his arms around him, resting his forehead against his. There’s a small moment of silence as they both breathe in tandem, the relief washing over them in waves. _He’s going to live._

“....So what was that you said earlier about being Prince Charming?” Steve teases quietly, a small grin on his face. Tony barks out a laugh at that, though for the first time in months, it doesn’t pain him.

“Out of all the things I said, I can’t believe _that’s_ what you’re holding onto, you _dork.”_

 _“You’re_ the one that said true love’s kiss, Stark. I can’t be held responsible for the ideas you put in my head.”

It still feels utterly surreal in a way he can’t properly explain. He grips at Steve’s shirt beneath his hands, as though if he lets go, everything will go right back to the way it was. He doesn’t want to let go-- and by how tightly Steve is holding onto him, he imagines he isn’t the only one feeling that way.          

“...We need to tell the others,” Steve says eventually. His fingers are tangled in Tony’s hair, gently pulling through the strands. Tony’s starting to realize just how exhausted he is, if that alone is enough to get him to start nodding off.

“We’ll tell them in a bit,” he replies, pressing a kiss against the corner of his jaw. “Just… a few more minutes?”

“Of course. Whatever you want, Tony,” comes the easy response. Tony’s starting to think he genuinely means it.

“What if I want to kiss you again?” Steve does so without preamble, tilting his head down to meet him. Tony exhales into it, light and content.

“Anything else?” Steve asks, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“...Tell me-- tell me again.” Tony asks of him. Steve smiles, a small upturn at the corner of his mouth.

“I love you.” He says it again and again, echoing over and over until it’s all that Tony can think about. He can’t taste the flowers any longer, the ash and copper gone with the roots that once took hold. He breathes, and he smiles, simply because he can.

_I hope that he is worth dying for._

Yes, he thinks. Yes, he was worth dying for-- but he didn’t have to be. Now, above all else, Tony knows he’s worth living for.

**Author's Note:**

> I would just like to apologize to literally everyone on this earth because I am so friggin bad at writing battle scenes, good god. 
> 
> This is also the first fic I've written for the Marvel fandom, as I've never had the guts to actually sit down and write for the most important pairing of my entire existence. So as nervous as I am about sharing this, I'm so glad that I finished it at last. Any and all feedback is appreciated, and thank you so much to Miko again for creating such beautiful art for this event!
> 
> If you would like to yell in my general direction about Stony or Marvel in general, I can be found on tumblr as SoldiersShield and @LunalaLanding on twitter!


End file.
